


Sabbatical

by WriteAnon



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:43:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteAnon/pseuds/WriteAnon
Summary: Angel and Anon meet up with an old friend from Angel's past. Shenanigans ensue!





	Sabbatical

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for my good friend LazBriar, author of The Thief, The Spider, and The Hotel  
> If you haven't read his story you really, really should. Not because you need to in order to enjoy this story, but just in general, because it's really good.
> 
> Enjoy!

                    SABBATICAL

     An addition to [The Thief, The Spider, and the Hotel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17874860)  
   

SABBATICAL

A commission/sequel/thing to this story please give it a read and send LazBriar some positivity!

If you want a commission done, my rate is 1.2 cents per word. Just drop me a PM and we'll take it from there!

 

* * *

 

The atmosphere was electrified, cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. The soft light of the gas-lamps caught in the haze, turning them to glowing thunderheads, hanging ominously over the poker table. The mood around the table was pregnant, expectant, awaiting some vague calamity in the coming moments. No matter who wins, the rest of the table will be up in arms.

You sit opposite your opponent, calmly puffing on a cigarette like you have nary a care in the world. And in a way, you don't. The clown on the other side of the table (no, really, he's like some gross-looking gangster-jester) couldn't find his prick with a roadmap and a team of archeologists. He'd made it this far into a fifty-thousand dollar pool through sheer, clownish luck. That, and he's too zoned out to actually bluff, tell, or be read. Some people you can read like an open book, this motherfucker reads like a Magic Eye picture of a profoundly retarded carnival.

"I call that muthafucka like a fine bitch on Friday night, my brotha," the Juggalo gurgles, throwing his cards down with a perplexingly wet 'slap'. "Be right up all about that nonsense. Got me some colorful numbers up in here with a straight-up dope Jeckel Brother, my grimmest of mothafuckin' cardsharks!"

Dude just set down a two of hearts, a four of spades, a seven of clubs, an ace of clubs, and a Joker like it was a royal flush. He literally could have thrown a liberal arts degree on the table and it would have been more useful.

"Okay, we're done here," you mumble, looking over at the dealer. "Do I even need to show my cards?"

The dealer looks just as fed up with this farce as you. "Technically…?"

You set your cards down, three sevens, a queen of hearts, and an ace of spades. You reach over and scoop the chips your way. The assembled losers growl and hiss, pissed that they'd lost ten Gs each, but also relieved that the clown didn't waddle away with their money. Still, you're now fifty-grand richer and none of these fine gentlemen are too thrilled about it. The Juggalo being the exception, since he's still processing the fact that he lost. You'd give him about five minutes before he musters enough neurons to be angry. You see hands drifting towards all manner of weapons, these freshly gulled demons eyeing you up like a hawks at a canary.

Now was the time to beat a hasty retreat.

"If you work for a living…!" You shout, letting the phase hang in the air. "Why kill yourself working?!"

"…Hey…" the Juggalo grumbles, his greasy painted(?) brow furrowing as he looked at your hands on his money. "Wait a muthafuckin' minute, bro…"

Huh, so he's smarter than you thought.

Just then, a small metal cylinder burst through the window, thudding on the table: a flashbang. You cant your wide-brimmed hat down over your eyes and clap some muffs over your ears. An instant later and the room filled with light as a terrific bang split the air. By the time their vision cleared and their ears stopped ringing, you were gone not only with the take, but the wallets and watches of the three closest to you.

You also left a fat stack in the breast pocket of the dealer. You're not an animal.

 

* * *

 

You walk down the sidewalk away from the casino, hat canted over your face, a mad grin shining like a crescent moon. You could get used to this whole 'gambling' thing, it's like thieving only you also get to exalt in the ruination of your opponents. A familiar double-pair of hands shoot out of an alley and pull you into the darkness, shoving you roughly against a wall. A few weeks ago and you would have been at least a little offput by this, but since the…event, you guess you could say you've hardened the fuck up. Besides, you could smell his perfume from a block away, there's no way your angel could hide from you.

A pair of soft, warm lips press against yours. His taste, his smell, the feel of his hot, fluffy body against yours makes you forget for a moment the squishy unsavory thing you just stepped in. "Hey, sexy. Good aim."

"Never hurts to end the night with a bang," Angel Dust said practically into your mouth, he was so close.

You smiled back and grab his hips, pulling him close, grinding your rapidly engorging member between his legs. "My thoughts exactly."

"Right here?" Angel cooed, faux-shocked. "How filthy."

"You love it," you say, kissing back, more forcefully. The thrill of victory and a flawless escape combined with your lover's everything has you more than a little het up.

A dull metallic 'click' followed by high pitched mechanical whine drew both of your attention to the mouth of the alley. Standing shoulder to shoulder across the alley was a half-dozen heavily armed pig demons: Gadzooks Gang enforcers. In their hands were an assortment of distressingly familiar weapons, ray guns, plasma disruptors, and a few annhiliators here and there. Gadzooks boys armed with Sir Pentious' weapons.

"Sssso!" A familiar voice hissed from behind the line of enforcers. "That monocular harlot's friend is making bagpipes and buggery with a thieving reprobate! I can't say I'm surprised."

The Gadzooks step aside and Sir Pentious himself slithers past them, hood unfurled and his hands on his hips. "Greetingsss Anon. How good it is to finally meet you in person. Did you honestly think you could run from us forever? Hiding out at that tart's cockamamie hotel was clever, but out here, on the streets, you've got yourself a 'hella rep'!"

Christ this guy's a tool.

A heavily armed, extremely pissed off tool.

This is bad.

Angel grits his teeth a pulled a quartet of Tommy guns seemingly out of nowhere, but the Gadzooks have the drop, one of them fires their weapon, a net of pink-orange energy streaks through the air and encases Angel, knocking him off his feet.

Pentious cackles as Angel squirms around on the ground. "Such verve! Ah, don't worry, strumpet, I have other plans for you! Once these fine gentlemen settle their score with this lout, you'll have their undivided attention!"

"Bastard!" You rush forward, knife drawn, hoping to catch the blustering naga off guard.

Pentious scoffs and extends his hand, wild currents of lighting crackle from one of his rings. You convulse in agony and fly backwards, landing on the ground next to Angel. Your eyes meet, a sad, apologetic understanding passes between you.

This is it.

"Make peace with each other now," Sir Pentious hisses. "No one's coming to save you."

["I'm your Huckleberry,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5zdal1MKf0) says a soft, high-toned voice with light, drawling accent.

Every head in the alley turns to see a figure strolling towards them, slow and unaffected, as though without a care in the world. He's tall, whoever he is, as thin and tough-looking as a hickory switch. Fuzzy felt-like wings draped over his shoulders in a dusty brown shroud, looking to all the world like a duster coat. His face is obscured by a wide-brimmed hat save for a pair of glinting orange eyes peering out from the shadows. As he walks forward he takes a pull on his cigarillo, the dull orange ember illuminates his visage. You can see that the upper half of his face is marked with a bone-white pattern strongly resembling a skull. He's a moth demon, a Death's Head Moth demon to be precise.

Holy shit, it's…

"S-Sabbath?" Sir Pentious stammers, his hood completely deflated like an erection at an octogenarian nudist's beach.

"I see you've improved your social circle, Penny," says Sabbath, tipping his hat like a gentlemen, despite the icy waves of contempt rolling off him. "Although I must protest your choice of marks."

The heavily armed and formerly enraged Gadzooks part around him like the Red fuckin' Sea, some of them even pressing themselves against the walls in an effort to appear smaller. Sabbath offhandedly snatches the weapon of the Gadzook that had netted Angel, pressing the release button on the side. He tosses the expensive, high-tech weapon away like garbage not worth his time.

The energy net vanishes from Angel and he shoots to his feet, beaming. "Doc?!"

"Haven't practiced in an age, my sweet soft silk-slinger. I see you've been keeping well."

Angel helps you to your feet and pulls you toward the unnerving legend. "And y'look like shit as always! I heard ya died!"

"Like a bad cough, I linger," says Sabbath, plucking his cigarillo from his mouth before gesturing curtly in your direction. "Introduce us, you reprobate."

Angel smacks you on the shoulder and gestures at the ghoulish moth-demon. "Anon, this is my ol' buddy Sabbath! He and I go waaay back."

"H-hel-oh-uh-how're-I," you stammer like a cretin. This guy's name can be found on just about every 'Do Not Fuck With' list in the city.

"Likewise." Sabbath takes a drag on his cigarillo and shoots you a sideways look. "Not the Anon of all that business a few weeks back?"

"Yeh," you squeak, before deciding that you faced fucking Abaddon, nephilim, and are on speaking terms with Alastor himself! You apparently have a rep, and you better live up to it. "Yeah! Yeah, that's me. Pleased to meet you, Sabbath."

You offer your hand and he studies it for a moment. "You'll forgive me if I don't shake hands. Force of habit. However, I should like to treat you to a drink, sir. I understand you saved us all a bother. I'm behooved as a Southern gentleman to extend my gratitude."

"Uh…" Sir Pentious mumbles, alone, his hit squad having long since absquatulated.  
Sabbath turns to face Pentious, perplexed. "Oh, Penny. I apologize, I forgot you were there. You may go now."

Sir Pentious makes good his escape, nothing save for a nice round of 'almost died' sex could be more satisfying than the look on his face.

"Shall we?" Sabbath gestures out to the street, hand extended to Angel. "It's high time we caught up, you ornery orb-weaver. And you, Anon, you strike me as something of a raconteur. Perhaps you could share the yarn about your times with that cantankerous carbuncle."

"Yeah, sure," you say, following after them, not crazy about how readily Angel loops his arm under Sabbath's…

Fuck it, free booze is free booze.

 

* * *

 

Slow, languid jazz music fills the air as you, Angel, and Sabbath stoop at a bar. You nurse a beer while Angel catches up with his 'ol' buddy'. Angel's no lightweight, far from it, but the rangy moth demon has been slugging back shots of bourbon like they were water and Angel was trying hard to keep up. It was starting to show. The effete spider demon hung off Sabbath's shoulder, snickering and simpering, batting him on the arm whenever he said something terribly clever, which seemed to be every other fucking word.

"Well, of course, I say to the affronted gentleman 'wherever did you get this notion I was liaising with your wife, good sir?' He says something to the effect of 'You're naked in my bed!' I correct him: 'I'm clearly wearing my holsters, sir!'"

Angel cackles and claps him on the back. "And then what?"

"Oh, he was unmoved by my logic. I made a few more salient points and excused myself from the situation. You know me, I've always found domestic disputes a tiresome matter. But listen to me drone on and on! Angel, what have you gotten up to in the interim? I so rarely see your works upon the roster in the skin-houses, don't tell me you've retired?"

Angel shrugs. "Ehhn…let's call it a sabbatical. I've been rethinking a few things, y'know?"

His steely, orange eyes narrow and he notches a fuzzy, gnarled claw at Angel. "Now, I've heard a spurious unconfirmed rumor that you are palling around with the Li'l Appleseed, and all that implies."

Angel sighs and nods, leaning in a mite too close to the lisping gunslinger. "Guess y'could say I'm tryin' to keep it on the down-low, yeah?"

"Say no more, Angel," Sabbath says, hand over his heart. "On my mother's honor, I shall take it to my second grave."

You clear your throat and turn on your stool, jabbing a thumb at yourself. "Me too. I'm at the Hotel, too."

"Are you now?" Sabbath locks eyes with you, the skin around his eyes a dark bruise-black, lending to his skull-like visage. A chill races up your spine; why do some souls get to look so cool when they come here and others look like…well, you? "A man seeking redemption is a man out of options. Tell me, Anon, what's on your infernal resume to see you to such an unconventional locale?"

The more this guy talks the more you (feel stupid) the less you like him. "Thieving. Killing. Gambling. The usual. You?"

His eye glints at the edge in your voice, a wry smile spreading across his serrated mouthparts. "Thieving. Killing. Gambling. The usual."

Ah, shit, did you just piss him off?

"Oh! Gamblin'!" Angel reaches over and slings his arms over your shoulders. "Pockets here just won a fat pot before all that bullshit in the alley!"

"Did he now?"

"Fifty grand," you say, sipping your beer, trying not to meet his gaze.

"What's your game?"

"Poker."

Sabbath's expression changes from that of a thinly-veiled sneer to a genuine smile. "Fifty grand? Must have been a peach of a hand."

You breathe a sigh of relief. "I'm pretty sure my opponent thought he was playing Uno."

Sabbath laughed and claps you on the back. "That's the beauty of the game! An honest profession, I've always said. At least with poker lying is part of the rules."

"I'll drink to that!" You say, raising your cup in cheers.

The three of you tap glass and knock your drinks back.

You drain your beer and belch loudly, nudging Angel with your elbow. "Well, I think it's time we head on out. The wardens are probably wondering where we ran off to."

Angel groans and rolls his eyes. "Fuckin' hell! It's like havin a curfew! Sorry Doc, but Pocket's right. We gotta get back to the hotel."

"Very well then," Sabbath says, tipping his cap at you both. "I'll be around, Angel. You and me got something we have to set square."

Angel ponders this for a moment before snapping his fingers. "Oh! Hey, why dontcha come crash at the hotel? They got tons of rooms and food and junk. More importantly, it's free!"

Sabbath's eyes lit up a bit at this. "I suppose I could be persuaded to accompany you and meet your friends. The rest of them, I mean."

He winks at you while he says that last part. Friends? Do you and Angel seem like you're just friends? Once again he offers his arm and, once again, Angel takes to it like a bird to a branch, light and easy, but still holding on for dear life.

You really aren't crazy about it.

 

* * *

 

It's late by the time you get back to the hotel. You're hardly surprised when you open the door to see Charlie and Vaggie waiting in the lobby. Mother Hen looks relieved that you're back home safe, of course. You may not be here for the most straight-up reasons, but you're finding yourself increasingly fond of Charlie. She's such a sweetheart and it's causing you increasing… discomfort(?) to keep on worrying her with your shenanigans. Nevertheless, it's always nice to have someone who worries about you. Also, Charlie being who she is, any hypothetical heat on your tail will turn right back around and pretend the thought never even crossed their minds. It dawns on you how lucky you are to have a safehouse with room-service.

Vaggie, of course, is wearing her practiced scowl and glare. Honestly, if she's not careful her face is going to get stuck that way. That's not fair, she's a decent enough person when you get past it all…and blackberries are sweet if you get through the brambles. Still, she did you a solid once so you try not to jerk her around too much…on purpose, anyway.

Husk is at the front desk and marks your arrival with distinct disinterest. He's looking slightly surlier than usual, but not to the point where he's hit the bottle to take the edge off. Can't be that late, then.

"And where have you been?" Vaggie says, gesturing at the clock on the wall, in place of numbers the face reads 'who cares?' "You said you were going to be back in time for dinner!"

"Take it easy, Snatch!" Angel huffs, hanging up his coat. "We ran into an old buddy of mine and lost track. Get off my tits and grow your own!"

Sabbath steps out from behind him and reaches up, pinching Angel's cheek painfully and pulling his head to the side. "Now, Angel! That is no way to address a lady!"

"Angel, who is this?" Charlie says, her eyes narrowing.

The ghoulish Southern gentleman steps forward and doffs his hat, placing it over his heart as he bows. "I apologize for my friend's atrocious manners, my lady. My name is Sabbath, and I am tickled to make the acquaintance of such a beauty."

He reached out and took Charlie's hand, kissing the air above her knuckles, his grey, feathery antennae swept back respectfully. Charlie giggles and puts a hand to her blushing cheek. "Oh, my! Such a gentleman!"

Sabbath moves to do the same to Vaggie, but she just takes his hand and shakes it curtly. "Pleased to meet you. Sabbath, was it? I'm Vaggie, this is Charlie, and that's Husk. Now, what are you doing here?"

"Vaggie!" Charlie exclaims, her hands on her hips.

Sabbath smiles and chuckles. "You must be 'the Warden'. Angel has whinged at length about you, my dear. A firm hand and a sharp tongue are necessary to reign in this irascible arachnid. I applaud your temerity and resolve. As to your question, I owe Angel a debt that I'll see paid. To that end, if I must keep him out of trouble, so be it."

"Oh man, ya paid that back tonight! I–OW!" Angel exclaims as you reach over behind his back and give him a hard pinch. He turns around to glare at you and chew you out, but you silence him with a wink and a meaningful glance at Sabbath.

Vaggie smiles and gives his hand another, friendlier shake. "Trouble? Him? Are we talking about the same Angel?"

"Miss Vaggie, the stories I could tell!"

"Hey-hey, now! Sorry ladies, but he's spoken for!" Angel interjects, a nervous crease in his brow. "Doc, c'mon, we've got some more catchin' up to do."

"Actually…" you drawl, looping an arm around Angel's waist. "If it's all the same to you, I think Angel and I are gonna turn in. It's been a big day. You understand, of course."

"Of course," Sabbath nods, looking over to Angel. "See you in the morning, then."

Angel shoots you a dirty look but is catching on that you're up to something. "…Yeah, sure. Just try not to let these busybodies get to ya, 'kay Sabbath?"

There was a commotion behind them as Husk scrambled over, his black eyes wide. "Did you say your name was 'Sabbath'?"

"That is correct, sir," Sabbath says, looking Husk over with a wry sort of amusement. "Are you the doorman of this fine hotel?"

"Uh–" Husk mutters, uncharacteristically stymied.

Sabbath rolls his wings back over his shoulders, revealing a quartet of shining Colt 1877 revolvers. His four arms pluck the weapons from their holsters with a downright unnerving grace and quickness. He hands the six-shooters over, grip-first. "I assume this is a weapons-free establishment. I will, of course, expect those back on the 'morrow."

"Of course!" Husk says, ogling the guns, something like giddiness(?!) in his voice. "Let me just say, it's an honor to meet you, Doc–"

Sabbath raises his hand, shaking his head. "Now, now. I've not practiced in an age. Moreover, my license has no doubt expired. Sabbath will do, Mr. Husk."

"Call me Husk, please!" Husk says as he carefully, almost deferentially, sets the beautiful revolvers down behind the front desk. "Anything else I can do for you? A drink, maybe?"

Vaggie and Charlie exchange nonplussed glances at Husk's abrupt shift in behavior.

"Bourbon would be a daisy, sir!" Sabbath made his way over to Husk, glancing at the playing card patterns all over his body. "Tell me, Husk, do you play?"

Husk smirks buffs his knuckles on his lapel. "I've been known to shuffle."

"Well, let's split a bottle and crack a deck, then," Sabbath says, turning to Vaggie and Charlie. "Care for a friendly game, ladies?"

"You'll have to teach me!" Charlie says, entirely too eager to play cards with a scary demonic bug outlaw.

"Miss Charlie, you could not ask for a better teacher."

Vaggie smiles and crosses her arms. "I'm in, but only if you share some dirt on Angel."

"Did he ever tell you about the time he woke up in an alley naked, shaved, and drunk? He's still known as 'Cueball' in the upper-east buroughs."

"Really." Vaggie looks over at Angel, she's probably the happiest you've ever seen her. She loops her arm under Sabbath's and walks alongside him. "Oh, do go on, please…"

Angel sighs and rolls his eyes, no doubt preparing himself of the fresh new fire Vaggie would be spitting in the coming days. Still, he's kept his cool so far and hasn't torpedoed your plans. You gesture for him to follow you upstairs, to your room.

 

* * *

 

You close the door behind you and set your money-filled satchel down on your bed, you open it up and grin, clutching the stacks of bills, sniffing them. You immediately regret it, as some of the money stills reeks of Juggalo. You're still over the moon, dank clown musk notwithstanding. Fifty grand is a daisy (fuck, you're even thinking like that sauve fucker now) but you've got other plans. Big plans. And that spooky, charming skull-faced asshole downstairs is just about the perfect fit for this one.

"Alright, what're ya up to, Pockets?" Angel says, leaning against the doorframe, smirking. "You plannin' somethin'? Got a cute little plot cookin' up?"

You smirk and turn to face Angel. "You could say that. Regional poker tournament is underway at the Caym Casino the Pict District. Buy-in's a few grand, but and that adds up as you get up in the rungs. Right now, fifty grand could get us a seat at the mid-tables. And it only goes up from there."

Angel looks at you like you've just grown a second head. "You're not serious. Look, Pockets, ya struck it rich tonight, but don't let that go to y'head! Those guys out there are professionals! They'd eat ya alive!"

"Well, duh," you say, glancing at the floor. "But him? I'd bet he'd get stuck in their teeth."

Angel's face lights up with a sharp crescent smile. "And where are you while he makes your money for you?"

"I'm in the back, grabbing up the priceless antiques that are being transported from the casino's vault. Turns out the owner fancies himself a strategist, and the best way to avoid notice is by staging a hoity-toity tournament to draw attention elsewhere. They moved the dregs on the first day, now they'll be getting into the big stuff, the old stuff, as the tournament heats up and gives them cover. That's where I come in."

"And me?" Angel asks, expectantly. "Where do I figure into all of this?"

You wink, smiling to hide your admitted discomfort at this part. "Well, Mr. Big Bad Billy Badass Gambler needs some arm-candy, doesn't he? When he waltzes in there and buys his way into a high-stakes poker tourney, a world-class beauty hanging off his arm would really sell it. Name recognition alone would get the two of you a seat, probably. A real power-couple."

Angel cocks an eyebrow, a wry look on his face. "Is that a twinge of jealousy I hear, Pockets?"

Shit. "No."

"Oh!" Angel gasps, one pair of hands clapping to his face as the other drape over your shoulders. "Master thief Anon, the man with plans for this city, is jealous of some dusty ol' cowboy!"

"No'm'not," you mutter, a least a little prickled at his derision. Was it so hard to believe that he'd be jealous of fucking Sabbath? Did he not see how all their friends quite literally swooned the second he opened his charming, serrated mouthparts? Husk looked like a little kid meeting his hero! And Angel! Angel couldn't keep his hands off the guy!

Wasn't hard to believe at all.

Angel surprises you with a kiss, his soft, smooth lips press against your with a firm but gentle pressure. It's a light kiss, a gentle kiss, a loving kiss. He breaks it after what seems like an eternity and winks at you. "You're cute when you're stupid."

Lust burns in your veins like a flash fire, your body goes from zero to FUCK at the drop of a dusty wide-brimmed hat. You pull him closer for a rougher, less refined kiss. Not to be outdone, Angel fires back with his own expert tongue-work. He's doing everything just right. You grind your bulge into his lap, your hands reaching back and grabbing his firm, supple rear, giving it a wanting squeeze. Angel pushes back against you, guiding you to the bed. He breaks the kiss, setting his hands on your chest before giving you a hard shove. Your legs catch on the edge of the bed and you topple over backwards. You watch as he crawls over you, straddling you as he plucks your hat off your head.

"I'll be wearing this," he coos, his smile one part playful, one part predatory. "Gonna ride my stallion off into the sunset…"

You reach up and grab his hips. Stallion? No, no… you're a bronco!

Angel figures this out before too long, and he loves every second of it.

 

* * *

 

You wake up in the middle of the night, Angel sleeping soundly next to you. 'Glad to be alive' is one of, of not the best, kinds of sex out there. You notice that the lights are still on in the hallway. Are the others still up?

You make your way down the stairs and around the corner, careful not to make a sound. You peer out from the darkness at Charlie, Vaggie, Husk and Sabbath as they sit around a table, a few empty bottles around them, cards on the table.

"So, what exactly do you owe Angel, if you don't mind me asking?" Says Charlie, the tone of her voice makes it achingly clear that she's in full-blown therapist mode.

"Just friendship, Miss Charlie. Angel is my friend."

"That's important to you, isn't it?" Charlie says, cocking her head. "Friendship."

"Yes'm. I always do square by my friends because… well…" he sighs, deep and wistful like a lonely breeze, slugging back a shot of bourbon. "I knew a man, once. A righteous man. He'd strike down the sun if it wronged him. I knew I could never be… good or just, like him. But I knew I could be there for him. Believe in him. Help him as he walked down his righteous path. He gave me hope, this man. But then, one day, he followed his heart and our paths diverged. Back then I had the arrogance, the audacity, to pass judgement upon him. Me! A gambler and thief, a vagabond, diseased in body and soul. I partook in one last bout of boundless hypocrisy and wished to never see him again. In my own way, I suppose it was the last kindness I could bestow upon him. For if I ever did see him again, well…"

"He'd be here," Husk whispers, his usually sour face soft and somber.

"That's right," Sabbath nods. "But that's the rub, isn't it? He's not here, neither is she. But I am. I was foolish enough to worry for his soul, to be outraged on his behalf. I killed our friendship out of a preposterous delusion of moral authority. As much as I am glad he's not here, with me, there is nothing I wouldn't give to see him again. To reminisce. To… apologize. That's why I do right by all my friends here, because I failed the one man who's path could have meant my redemption."

Vaggie taps the table and raises her glass. "To friends."

They all raised their glasses and clicked them together, knocking them back.

Shit.

It almost sounds like he's…

No. No, Angel will be able to convince him to help. He said it himself, he's got a debt to repay. But what if he stays around and tries to redeem himself? It sounds like he means it, like Angel. What would that mean for you? What does that mean for you and Angel?

No.

You can fix this.

 

* * *

 

The morning after you and Angel wake up bright and early. Make your way to the dining room where breakfast is being served. Nifty and Sabbath are sitting at the table, both enjoying a bowl of cheerios as they chat.

"And then what happened?" Nifty says, around a mouthful.

"Well, I shot him in the head and made it look like a suicide," Sabbath replies. "Couldn't make him a martyr, could I?"

Nifty shoots him an impressed smirk, her sharp, needle-like teeth glinting. "Quick with your hands, huh?"

Sabbath nodded, twirling her spoon in his fingers. "That's the rumor."

Nifty looks down at her empty hand and giggles, clapping happily. "Again! Again!"

"Hey, Nifty," You say. "Think you could give us some time with our buddy, here?"

"Oh, don't mind me," Nifty said, munching on some cereal. "Chat away!"

"Hey, Nifty! I saw a mess on the way here, do you think ya could go clean it up?" Angel says, winking at you.

"Where is it?"

Angel grabs a vase off the table and throws out of the dining room and down the hallway, the sound of shattering pottery is sharp and distinct. "Over there. Better get on that!"

Nifty glares at him and hops to her feet before storming out of the dining room.

"Oh, and Anon needs his sheets changed!" Angel calls after her.

"Blow it out your ass!" She retorts.

"I did!"

" _ **Ugh!**_ "

The two of you approach Sabbath, who pushes his unfinished breakfast away, a sour look on his face. "Angel, you have all the charm and wit of a latrine."

Angel grins and leans in. "Mornin' Doc! We got a proposition for ya!"

"I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, sodomy is not in my character."

Angel's come on to him before? A thousand times? And he said 'no'?! What's wrong with him?!

"What? No! Well… it's not sodomy if ya take the front…" Angel purrs, winking at him and licking his lips. "Ever hear of an Eiffel Tower?"

You grab Angel and yank him back, having had quite enough of that conversation. "No! No! Angel… _no_. Sabbath, I hear you like to gamble! Well, I've got fifty grand and there's a poker tournament on. You in?"

Sabbath looks up at you, his eyes narrow to orange slits as a toothy smile crawls across his face. "I'm your Huckleberry."

 

* * *

 

The Caym Casino was one of the better joints in the area. No Sugary Chigurh, to be sure, but it did well enough. In fact, the only casinos that did better were backed by aristocrats, and Caym almost rubbed shoulders with some of them. No, Caym was a rags-to-riches affair, started by a slick pimp and drug dealer by the name of Nemed. Though various machinations both legitimate and not, Nemed made a name for himself as a demon of worth and integrity. Too many demons compulsively betrayed and backstabbed one another, but not Nemed. The only time he'd turn was if someone else made a better offer. There was a stability to that kind of pragmatism many found attractive.

To say the Casino scene was in something of an uproar was underselling it. Ever since the raid on the Sugary Chigurh's vaults, every casino worth a damn was updating its security systems. This meant there was a time when the neither systems were operational, this meant vulnerability. So, like anyone working with more than a brainstem, Nemed opted to move the contents of his vault to an off-site location until the security systems were back online. Other casinos had closed their doors to do this without interruption. Blood in the fucking water. Whole shipments were lost to raids. So Nemed, ever the opportunist, took another approach…

Demons of every stripe showed up to stack chips and glower at one another. The chaff were sorted out early on, and now only the big dogs remained. Any attack on the Caym would draw the ire of some very powerful, dangerous figures, if anyone even figured out he was moving his goods at all! It was a flamboyant affair, drew a lot of attention, and as any good stage magician will tell you, if you know where someone's going to be looking you can make some real magic happen.

Still.

There were some necessary measures to be taken.

 

* * *

 

"I hope your boys are worth the fortune I spent on them," Nemed grumbles as his workers load the crates.

"If you're lucky, you won't have to find out," says the huge minotaur demon standing to his right. "Wouldn't want anything getting broke, would we?"

"Hah!" Nemed barks, his smile acidic. "Broke is right. Do you have any idea how valuable some of this stuff is, Lassiter?"

"About a tree-fiddy," Lassiter snorts. "Doesn't matter. You pay us and we'll protect a box of packing peanuts like it was Lucy's own cock. Don't worry."

"It's my job to worry," Nemed said, reaching for his buzzing cellphone. "Just do yours."

Lassiter snorted as Nemed took the call and walks away. He looks out at the assorted boxes his men were prepping for transport. Old suits of armor, a few ancient weapons, some items are even claimed to be pre-Fall in origin. The crown jewel, so to speak, in the large glass display case in the center of the room, Inside it, encased in a gold leaf shod crystal sphere, is a small metallic fragment about the size of a thimble. Near as he can tell it's a shard of an angel's halo. Whatever, right? Plenty of those around from dead Exterminators, but Nemed claims it's a part of Lucifer's Archangel halo, a splinter of holy fire frozen solid by its descent into the Ninth Circle. Lassiter thinks he's talking shit.

"What?!" Nemed hisses into his phone. "Are you sure it's him? I thought he was dead! …Shit! I'm on it, just, uh, just keep the peace until then."

"What is it?" Lassiter grunts, not really all that interested.

"Sabbath just showed up in the lobby demanding a seat at the table."

Oh, shit. "Really?"

"I'm going need to pull a few of your men off of the job here." Nemed types something into his phone and sighs. "Better to head this one off at the pass. If he starts a riot, there's no telling what'll get looted. Can you cover things back her with twenty less men?"

It would mean he'd have to start stacking crates himself, but it was worth it. "Sure, sure. Take 'em."

Nemed heads off to round up his peacekeepers and Lassiter straightens out his tie and rolls out his shoulders. He had this well under control.

 

* * *

 

It was a waiting game now.

You watch from one of the slot machines as Angel and Sabbath saunter towards the main poker table. The other contestants look like they've been told there's a gas leak, queasy and uncomfortable. Sabbath pulls his usual pleasantries, tipping his hat and nodding to all the relevant parties. Angel puts on a show of being arm-candy, leaning into the tall, gaunt moth demon, simpering at his dry southern witticisms and just generally looking like an oasis in a desert. God, that dress looks good on him. And the way he's done his hair? Unf. You imagine you can smell his perfume wafting over the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke. You feel your heart start to hammer in your chest, that gnawing, bone-deep need starts to pull at you. You see him plant a light little kiss on Sabbath's cheek, a dainty hand upon his forearm, what looks like an intimate whisper in his ear. Your hands ball into fists. The urge to rush over, grab Angel, and ravish him in the back alley is nigh-uncontrollable. You tear your eyes away and try to calm yourself down.

"Heh! Didn't expect him to show up," says a slot-jockey next to you. "This should be interestin'."

"Yeah?" You ask. "Why?"

"That's Sabbath, son! He scoops games like this alla time. Gambler and a damn good 'un, also the speediest, nerviest gunman in alla Hell! Likes to rile folk up, get under their skin, make 'em mess up. Usually he gets 'em so het up they come at him when he takes 'em to the cleaners. There, see?" He points at the squad of particularly robust demons that just took up positions near the table. "Boss Nemed just bumped up security. This'll be interestin' alright!"

"Interesting," you say, smirking.

Just as planned.

"Yeah, sure will be."

 

* * *

 

Angel smirks at the assembled demons as he and Sabbath stroll in. It was a feeling he missed, setting foot in a place and seeing heads turn, eyes bug out, mouths hang open. Just one second ago these people were all about their own business and now, as if a switch had been flipped, all eyes were on him. Ah, to make the scene again! Angel felt a little nostalgic but kept his head on straight. This was one of Pocket's cockamamie schemes, so it no doubt included drawing attention away from whatever garbage this hick joint was trying to squirrel away. Still, if that was the case, Pockets had landed on a sweet hand this time, one Hell of a tump card.

"Lucifer's wings," the lobby attendant croaks. "C-can I help you, sir?"

"Why yes, my boy," Sabbath drawls. "Where do I buy in?"

"Sir?"

"Buy in to the tournament, son," Sabbath clarified. "I have the money right here. Hold on."

Sabbath swept back his wings and fiddled about, giving the poor lobby attendant a full view of the pair of shimmering revolvers dangling from his hips. Sabbath abruptly pulled out a few huge stacks of cash and set them down on the table with a loud 'smack', causing the attendant to jump nearly a foot in the air. "There we are. That ought to cover the buy in."

"S-s-s-sir I'm g-gonna have to ask you t-to leave your w-weapons at the front desk," stammers the terrified attendant after exchanging the cash for poker chips.

Angel bites back a laugh as Sabbath allows a fun little pause to hang in the air, watching the attendant squirm and wriggle under his intense orange stare. Everyone else in the lobby is watching them too, frozen like statues.

"Of course, sir!" Sabbath finally says, a friendly grin on his face. "I always abide by house rules."

The attendant, and the rest of the room, breath a sigh of relief as he sets two celestial revolvers down on the front desk.

"I expect those back, now," Sabbath says, chidingly. "You'll keep them safe?"

"Y-yessir!"

Sabbath tips his hat and the two of them head off for the main floor room. The doors are beset with metal detectors and high-powered anti-magic runes, ensuring the no-weapons policy was enforced. The only thing that could get past these measures were innate powers and angelic items. The tournament was well under way, with six large poker tables set up where the blackjack tables and roulette wheels used to be. All around them was a maze of slot machines, the din of their spinning wheels and blaring jingles sang in the air. Angel sees a familiar face and wide-brimmed hat among them, watching. They make their way over to the table surrounded by the most important-looking demons and pulled out a chair. A familiar round of double-takes gripped the group.

"Deal me in," says Sabbath as he takes a seat.

The dealer obeys, eyes nervously shifting over to a cluster of security guards.

"I heard you were dead," says a robotic demon across the table, sounding as though he'd just lost a bet.

"You are no doubt relieved to discover otherwise," Sabbath says, checking his cards. "Does he sound relieved, darling?"

Angel simpers and bats his shoulder with one hand, caressing his forearm with another. "Relieved like a crackwhore on the pipe, Doc."

"We don't want any trouble, Sabbath," says another, much more agitated demon.

"Trouble? My man?" Angel says, mock-affronted, leaning in a planting a delicate kiss on Sabbath's hard ridge-like cheek. "He'll be good."

"Don't push your luck, spider," Sabbath mutters out the side of his mouth.

"Better hope yours holds out," Angel whispers back, adroitly pulling Sabbath's other two shining, ethereal pistols out of his purse and placing them into Sabbath's holsters, hidden by his wings. "Remember, only start shit when Anon gives the signal."

"Oh, I'll try, darling," Sabbath chuckles, slapping his cards down, a straight flush. "Oops!"

The dealer calls his hand and the other demons growl and grumble as their bets are gathered and pooled over to the gaunt moth-demon. Every eye was now on them, their glares promising death and mayhem of every stripe.

' _Hurry it up, Pockets!_ '

 

* * *

 

You make your way through the building. It's like a maze but Caleb, a disgruntled (now-former) employee, provided you with a map of the place. You memorized the thing down to the very last detail, strolling around with all the familiarity and aplomb of someone who has any business being there. You look up the hallway and a very important-looking demon is marching towards you with a small army of hard motherfuckers in tow. You cant your hat down over your face and step out of the way. He doesn't even notice you as he and his burly entourage storm by.

Perfect.

The mooks you saw around the poker tables were standard security, but these guys look like something a little more robust. Private security. It's always a good thing to see Pri-Sec running away from where you're going to.

You duck into a bathroom and, after checking the stalls for any witnesses, step up onto the sink and lift up one of the ceiling tiles, pushing it out of the way. A bundle of clothing bound with twine tumbles down: a uniform. Man, Caleb must have really had it in for this place.

The uniform isn't a perfect fit, but no one looking at you would be able to tell.

You head back down the hall and, with a carefully practiced air of legitimacy, walk through the door to the shipping area. Just as you suspected, all the real valuable stuff was being loaded up today, just as the tournament was ramping up. And now, there was a fifth as many security guards on hand.

Damn you're good.

You stroll past a guard and down into the loading area. Any one of these things would pay for your next ten capers, but you didn't come here for just any old demon artifact. You came here for it. Now, if only you could discover where it was…

Maybe it was in the flamboyantly decorated glass case in the middle of the room?

Fuck, this was going to be easy.

A huge hand sets down on your shoulder, you look over and up, up, up into the face a leering minotaur.

"Caleb sends his regards."

Shit.

 

* * *

 

Tenth round, tenth winning hand. Deep pockets and fragile egos made for easy pickings. Sabbath takes a drag on his cigarillo and looks at his hand. Not great, not bad either, but the damage was done. Those who sought to win their money back had gone all-in, raising as much as they had on one fateful draw. Now they were starting to lose their nerve, more than a few had already folded. The game was well in hand. Sabbath smacks his mandibles and turns to look at Angel, who was hiding his anxiousness well. Poor soul, worried for his scrappy little bed-buddy. Truth be told this whole escapade struck Sabbath as a young man puffing up his chest and strutting about to impress his girlfriend. In fact, by his reckoning this whole endeavor was bound to end in disaster, but it was worth it. It was worth it to save his friend's soul.

Angel was… still Angel, certainly, but different also. Sabbath could not for the life of him peg down exactly what it was that was different. The fact that Angel had a boyfriend, maybe? The fact that he was worried for said boyfriend, certainly. But there was also something else…no, this hotel business was good for him, that much was clear. And this Anon, well, that boy was a wild card if ever there was one.

"Sabbath," a voice calls from over his shoulder. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Nemed," Sabbath replies, not bothering to look. "Immensely. A friendly game between friends. Isn't that right, fellows?"

A round of grumbles and mutters is the reply.

"Mh-hm." Nemed looks over at Angel, who's giving his best sultry, come-hither stare. "I hope you're not planning any mischief, now. This is a professional tournament, so no funny business."

"Guns at the door, Nemed. Your staff made that much clear," Sabbath set his card down. "Call."

The remainders in the game groan and slap their cards down, the ones that had folded with (presumably) better hands slam their heads against the table. A dozen baleful sets of eyes lock onto the dour moth-demon as he scoops up his winnings.

"I get the feeling you don't need guns to start some shit."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Nemed leans in over Sabbath's shoulder and whispered. "In fact, I'd say that's just what you're here to do."

"A fascinating conjecture."

"Yeah? Try this one on for size. Suppose we know all about that guy who knocked over the Sugary Chigurh, how he's been seen around with your whore friend. Suppose we find out he's been chatting up one of our wagies in shipping. Suppose we just spent the last three days skinning that wagie alive. Suppose I saw Anon myself on the way here and by now he's already dead. That'd make you pretty fucked, wouldn't it?"

Sabbath takes a sip of bourbon and examines his glass, the dull, transparent reflection showing about twenty private security goons standing at the ready with semi-automatic weapons. "Suppose so."

In a series of movements too swift to follow with the naked eye, Sabbath grabs Nemed by the tie and sets a blade to his throat. In the same instant, his second set of arms burst out from under his wings, revolvers in hand, and open fire on the thicket of security personnel behind him. The revolvers roar like cannons, punching glowing holes the size of poker chips through the chests of the burly guards, as well as those of guards behind them. Twelve shots later and twenty lay dead on the floor.

"When I first got here I ran afoul of an Exterminator," says Sabbath as he slowly got to his feet, the edge of his glimmering knife burning an angry red line across Nemed's throat as he brandished his equally shiny revolver in his face. "Had enough holy metal on him to fashion me some mementos."

"W-wait…" Nemed whispers, hoarsely.

"Shh-shh-shh," says Sabbath, smiling at Angel. "Make us some breathing room, my dear."

Angel's face split with a malicious grin as he summons a quartet of Tommy guns in his hands. He looses a volley of machine-gun fire over the heads of the crowd. Everyone dives to the floor, the terrified poker players scuttle under the table as bullets buzz through the air like angry hornets.

Security guards burst into the room and fire back, causing Angel and Sabbath to take cover behind an upended poker table. Nemed seizes upon the opportunity and wrestles away from Sabbath, diving behind a bar.

"Hope things are going better for your boy, Angel," says Sabbath as he shakes out his spent shells and chambers some fresh ones, bullets tearing through the wood near his head.

"He better be!" Angel growls, his third pair of arms popping out and throwing lit bomblets over the upended table. "If he dies, I'll kill him!"

 

* * *

 

You grunt as you're thrown into a crate, the huge minotaur towers over you, smiling toothily. "So, you're the guy who knocked over the Sug? Have to say, I'm not I'm impressed."

"No?" You say, wiping the blood from your split lip. "Damn, I'm on the brink of devastation, Meatloaf."

Lassiter chuckles and backhands you to the floor. "Right about now the boss and my boys are getting the drop on your buddy. What? You thought you could put on a costume and grab you some treasure? What is this Mickey Mouse bullshit?"

The distant, muffled reports of gunfire sound throughout the building, automatic gunfire. Damnit! They weren't supposed to cause a ruckus until later! It dawns on you that his whole scheme was rather poorly thought out, you should have spent more time working on the details, you should have waited a bit longer so you'd to get suspicious at Caleb's apparent disappearance.

"Heh," Lassiter snorts. "Hear that? Guess your pal done started some shit. Too bad, too. They showed us the picture of your buddy. I don't know how a guy like you managed to pull down Angel Dust!"

"I got a big pecker," you say, spitting blood. "And he's not my only friend."

Two sharp reports shook the walls, fire alarms began to scream. Lassiter looked perplexed for a moment before his radio squawked. "Lassiter!"

He grabs up the radio from his belt. "Nemed? What's going on?"

"Shut your face and send the rest of your men!" Nemed screams. "Big guns! Everything! Sabbath's on the warpath!"

"But–"

"Now, dammit! Now!"

Lassiter growls and spins around to his remaining men. "To the main room! Now! I'll take care of Mr. Dress-Up!"

The other five or so Pri-Sec nod and take off through the door, each grabbing some manner of heavy assault rifle from a nearby gun rack.

Lassiter shakes his head and laughs. "You got Sabbath on your side? Okay, I guess I'm a little impr–"

You launch yourself at the burly minotaur, landing on his back. Your knife buries itself in his huge muscular neck. Before you can rip the blade free, he grabs your wrist and wrenches you off his back, throwing you at the ground. Your breath explodes from your mouth as your ribs hit the concrete, winding you.

He slowly pulls the knife out and chuckles. "You'll have to do better than that!"

He tosses it over his shoulder and reaches down, scooping you off the ground and pulling you into a crushing bearhug. His massive arms squeeze and squeeze, you feel your rib crack and your joints pop. You can only think of one thing to do. You crane your neck up and, using your teeth, rip out his gold septum ring.

"Mother…" He roars in pain. "…Fucker!"

Lassiter hurls you across the loading bay, sending you crashing through the ornate glass case of the shard. The broken glass tears into your flesh as you tumble to concrete floor.

Lassiter stomps over to you, snorting like, well, a bull, as blood from his torn septum drips down his face and onto his chest. "That's it. You're coming back to the headquarters!

Me and the boys'll make sure you understand the finer points of Hell, you street-level shitstain!"

He picks you up off the floor and holds you out with one hand, winding up for a crushing punch with the other. "Night, night."

You limply smash the only thing you could get a hold of into his arm, the crystal sphere containing that weird little piece of dark, tarnished metal.

The effect is instantaneous. He drops you and begins to scream a high, terrible scream. You can't even comprehend how awful it is, the agony carried in its grating tones are like nails scraping against your soul. As huge, volcanic veins pop up all over his body he starts making sounds that just aren't possible. Awful, terrible noises you suspect aren't really screams at all, but rather whatever atrocity going on inside him is being transmitted straight into your brain. Mercifully, Lassiter explodes into a squall of gore and holy light, leaving the funny little shard to fall to the ground with a muted 'plink'.

You shiver on the ground, not quite sure what to make of what you just saw. You're jerked out of your stupor by the sounds of gunfire. You look up to see Angel and Sabbath burst into the room, weapons at the ready.

"Oh, hey guys," you say, hoping you don't sound like you just pissed yourself.

Which you did.

Just a little.

"Anon!" Angel cries, running over to you. "What happened?"

"Stuff," you say, smirking as he pulls you into a hug and showers you with kisses.

You're pretty sure you have, like, all the broken ribs, but it's the thought that counts.

"Did we get what we wanted?" Sabbath says, dryly. "I won, by the way."

"Yeah," you say, reaching down and grabbing the shard. "I think it's a–"

The pain is instantaneous, immeasurable, and constant. Every fiber of your soul bellows in agony as thrashing, holy energy courses through you. It's fire, it's ice, it's a wineglass made of salt and acid and barbwire being shoved up your dick-hole and stomped on. It's every possible agony devised by an omniscient being in every part of your body, in every part of your soul, all at once.

Angel is panicking, he reaches out for the shard in your hand but Sabbath stops him. Sabbath, without wasting a second, skins his angelic bowie knife and scoops up the shard with it, freeing you from the pain. Every atom of your being can't stand another nanosecond of consciousness and you are more than happy to oblige.  
Darkness consumes you.

 

* * *

 

You wake up some time later in your bed with something of a start. You instinctively look at your hand but, curiously, there isn't so much as a red spot.

Huh.

"Anon!" Angel cries, standing in the doorway. "Oh, my God!"

Angel rushes over to you, fawning and fussing. You're covered in stitches and bandages and your ribs are splinted, but all in all you feel pretty good. You mean, come on, having a beautiful creature like Angel doting on you is a pretty–

His fist connects solidly with your cheek and stars explode behind your eyes.

"What the fuck was that?!" Angel demands.

"Whuh?" You manage.

He throws up his hands, exacerbated. "That fucking plan of yours! Get us to make a scene so ya can, what, steal some angelic doo-dad? That's retarded, Anon! What were ya thinkin'?!"

"I wanted to impress you," you blurt out, still dazed from the really rather solid sucker-punch he landed on you.

Angel's rage drops like a stone, his mismatched eyes wide. "What?"

Fuck.

Oh, well. In for a penny. "I've been planning this job for a while now but, uh, then we met Sabbath and… I dunno, I just wanted you to, y'know, look at me the same way you look at him. I wanted you to think I was–"

Angel shuts you up with a kiss, a long, deep kiss. He doesn't do tongue, he doesn't need to, you can feel it, the love, the want, the need. He breaks it and stares longingly into your eyes. "You're cute when you're stupid."

You must be pretty fucking cute. Goddamned adorable! Because holy shit you're an idiot if you ever wanted Angel to look at you any other way than he does right now.  
Your ribs hurt but you don't care. You need him, all of him, right fucking now. Glad to be alive sex is, definitively, without a shadow of a doubt, the best sex there is.

* * *

"Well, sounds like Anon's awake," Vaggie says, dryly, as sounds of passion and thumping furniture carry from the ceiling.

"Are you sure you can't stay longer?" Charlie asks Sabbath, pleadingly.

"Yeah!" Husk says, crestfallen.

"Ah, now, I must be going, Miss Charlie, Mr. Husk, Miss, Vaggie. The score's square and those two have some business that needs seeing to. I'd just be in the way."

Charlie sighs and nods. "If you say so. I just thought we were making some really good progress last night… maybe you'd be interested in becoming a client?"

Sabbath threw his head back and laughed, clapping his knee. "Nonsense, my sweet Georgia peach! I have not yet begun to defile myself! One day, certainly, I will darken your door again, but until then I must bid you all adieu."

"Hope to see you again soon!" Charlie says as he walks towards the door.

"Drop by anytime!" Husk says, trying and failing to hide his naked admiration. "Drinks are on the house!"

Vaggie crosses her arms and smiles ruefully. "Hit us up, I'd love to swap Angel stories!"

Sabbath tips his hat and smiles before snapping his talons in recollection. "Ah, yes, that's right!"

He sets a large satchel down on the floor, inside were seemingly endless rolls of cash. "I did some currency exchange when I went back to collect my pistols from the Caym. My poker winnings, minus some personal expenditures, coming out to about five million. I think that's more than a fair split of the bounty."

Charlie's mouth opens to launch into some deluge of disbelief, but Sabbath silences her by putting a claw to his lipless mandibles and glancing up to the next floor, winking playfully. "Let's have it be a surprise, yes?"

Charlie purses her lips together, smiling, and nods.

With that, Sabbath leaves. Moseying down the dusty, garbage-strewn roads and back into the vast, hellish city. He reaches into his pocket and produces a small glass vial. Inside the vial is a dirty, tarnished shard of something that's not quite metal and not quite glass. Sabbath smiles a not-terribly-charming smile. "Hell's in for quite the surprise. Oh yes sir. Quite the surprise, indeed."

**Author's Note:**

> Huh
> 
> That can't be good.
> 
>  
> 
> Hey all, this was my first commission work and I think it turned out really good! It's definitely something I'd be interested in doing more of in the future.


End file.
